Blood.

On.

The.

Bed.

Hmmmm. Not. Good. News.

First, I suspected one of Foxy's numerous football related nicks, scratches, lacerations just shy of needing stitches popped open (or was picked, let's be real here, he's an 8 year old boy). Or, he got a bloody nose.

Is. Not. Fox.

I know for a fact it's not me. How do I know this? First, I just do, and secondly? If it was me, I certainly wouldn't be sharing it here. Hell. I don't even let J talk about it. It's one of Those Things Best Left Un-Spoken About. Okay?

Fucker Up and Shoot Me? I don't think so. I'd checked her over the first time I got on this merry-go-round of Blood Origination, found nothing. No bloody noses, no scratches, wrestling match marks from when the three of these idiots hung out together. Yes, I checked to make sure there wasn't some sort of horrible Not Completely Spayed Thing going on, and the bitch was in heat. She's not. (Oh, thank God thank God thank God). Not her teeth; she was happy to have me check once she saw there were no tooth brushing implements in my hands. Huh. I didn't really give her memory enough credit I suppose; she does indeed recall the Eating Of Bone Incident that ended with Minty Mouth Washing.

Checked Fox again, peeked at my ankles - yep, good shaving still generally involves blood shed - not me. Could have answered my own question; shaving is on list for tomorrow, so obviously, that which may wait until then? Does.

When all else fails: Back to Pucker.

Further inspection ensued. Broken nail? Would be enormously painful, I can so vouch for that. All nails intact. Actually, come to think of it, they need to be nipped. Not in the mood at the moment.....she doesn't find a paw-dicure as relaxing as I do, even when gets the whole massage thing going on. I don't find nipping my dog cum enraged octopus relaxing in the slightest.

Now, I'm totally stumped.

Pucker's sitting pretty on the bed, her back feet right next to each other, weight on one hip, so delicate, so regal. She honestly is quite stunning. Even if I weren't just the teensiest bit biased. Admiring her facial structure, her gorgeous oft complimented coloring, silkiness of her ears, she switched positions on the bed.

There was blood on the bed. Steeling myself with a good, fortifying deep breath, I lifted the tail. Did I mention how pretty her tail is? Seriously? I already did? Because honestly? When I peeked under there, I had a stroke, so I'm tying to focus on how sweet her sashaying wee bum looks prissing along. Nothing detracted from the cold, hard, hanging truth:

My. Dog. Has. 'Roids.

Tiny grapes are hanging out of her ass. All this time, I labored under the impression she was simply taking herself for a solo ride on the orgasm train...not so. She was grooming her newest anal accessories. Looking back? Yeah, I suppose I should have noticed she was straining a bit on the go, but not so much that she was grunting. I totally would have paid attention if there was detectable grunting. Hmm, come to think of it, she was rather dancing more about, walking further in the puckered and ready position prior to say, lift off, if you will - but she does have that nasty habit of teasing me it's time to go. Thinking back further? Two walks and nary a log. Highly concerning.

We immediately went outside. Walked. As in, Right This Very Moment. Not sure what walking will do to minimize 'roids. I thought about putting on the Poop Gloves, shoving them back from whence they came, but I'm not sure that's a vet recognized therapy. I suppose, (big gulp to keep from making horrendous gagging noises) I could go to CVS and get Preparation H, shrink them. I don't want to. More importantly, what on God's Great Green Earth has she jammed up in there?

Thankfully, she and I shared a cup of strong coffee (hey, sometimes you need a little encouragement to go The Library, you know?) this afternoon. Got the old pipes cranking. I expected some of the Usual Suspects........so when this cylindrical sort of clear plastic thing started to ease it's way out? Tampon applicator leapt to mind. She was passing the big end first - thank heavens - breech applicators are a real bitch to dislodge. She'll occasionally need assistance. I wouldn't really ask how I know that either. It's not a pretty story.

Not tampon applicator.

She got into my lower bathroom cabinets, evidently helped herself, taking the evidence of destruction with her. Four tail arced in the air moments later, a blasted douche applicator finally slid out. A bit mangled, but mostly intact. The plastic twist top dropped in another log roll a few feet later.

She's enormously, painfully swollen, but relieved.

There is NO WAY on Earth I'm going into any pharmacy around here, or in a 25 mile radius. First, I buy cases upon cases of douche. Now I'm purchasing Preparation-H. Can you imagine what these people will think?